A lesson of humility for a young girl

Its a beautifully woven story about a young teenage girl belonging to a rich affluent place far away from her hometown. She experiences the different joys of nature and simplicity on visiting a village and above all she learns a lesson of humility from the poor village localites

Submitted:May 7, 2012
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A lesson of humility;

We had hired a car to take us to Monteshwar and the
destinations beyond.

It was a clear sunny day. We had left behind the hustle bustle
of the Bordhoman town early morning. Our short stay at
Monteshwar was over and we were travelling though the open
countryside. Beautiful lush green fields stretched over the
horizon. I liked the fresh breath of village soil and the cool
breeze.

I belong to to wb - rather my parents belonged to WB. We now
stay in a city in western India. Every year we spend there a
month or so in Bordhoman - the place where my grandparents live.
I eagerly wait for the vacations to arrive coz every time I visit
Bordhoman, I get to stay with my grandparents. I say, I 'm my
grandparent's doll! My grandfather, the sweetest of all, never
refuses to anything I ask for. He leaves no scope for me to
complain except the case of getting early morning at 6:30 AM
which is considered as noon there. However whenever I get out of
my grandparents house at , I got into a state of shock. Bordhoman
is a big town with numerous lanes and by lanes, -- one could
forget the location of his own house. Each of them packed with
houses in a haphazard manner with small kucha houses sandwiched
between them. Twenty -four seven there is cacophony down the
road ,be it the early morning hawkers(who act as alarm clocks for
localities),the rickshaw puller, or men quarrelling in their
monotonous voice.

My grandma, decided that she will take us to a place which she
thought would be different. To start with, she planned to take us
to Monteshwar, a small sleepy village where her father lived.
However, her plan did not end there. Our trip iternary included
visiting a temple and another sacred place whose destination was
not perfectly known. Personally, I don't like visiting temples
and travelling all the way just to offer worship to God...But I
never felt like to voice my opinions as my Grandma was keen on
visiting the temples she had last visited when she herself was a
kid. I agreed in hope to find something interesting.

We had just come out of the village of Monteshwar. Monteshwar is
the birthplace of my grandmother. There her father, my great
grandfather, lives in a big mansion with his eldest son. My great
grandfather, a brilliant doctor, continues to practice his
profession. Age never seemed a barrier for him. His efficiency of
work has never waned. I had come to know that people all over the
village respected him coz he had worked selflessly for the
village people and he became one of the most respected man of his
village and it's surroundings.

Soon our driver took us to our first destination. I found myself
gazing at a huge dome like entrance by a narrow uneven road. The
place was exactly as my mother described, she used to visit with
her mother to offer worship to Shiva. Of course, it looked old --
there was a small shiv lingam placed in the middle of the simple
rock temple .The stone of the lingam had worn out and was uneven.
Many holy threads had been tied around it to fulfil their wishes.

The second destination was as my Grandma described ,a very
important place for devotees of Chaitanya Dev, Vaishnava saint and social reformer in eastern
India in the 16th century. The place was also
Vrindavan Dasa Thakur's birthplace. Vrindavan das was the author
of "Chaitanya Bhagavata"- the biography of Chaitanya dev which
was even read by Chaitanya Dev himself. Even the origins of the
great saint, author of "Chaitanya Charatamrita" ,Krishnadasa is
also believe to be the same. It was a place where Kesava Bharti
bestowed sannyasa on Chaitanya Mahaprabhu when the latter
requested it.

A local folklore -I thought,

The location of the house where disciple of Sri Chaitanya lived
was not exactly known to us so we had to depend on localities
for direction and information. The local villagers were reluctant
at first but once they got to know about my grandma's true
identity i.e. she was the daughter of a famous doctor, they
readily showed us the location and bestowed their hospitality on
us.

The temple had a very shabby appearance. The floor was made of
wet mud and walls of cow dung cakes. This was the only thing I
hated about villages-the numerous discoveries and experiments
carried out with cow dung!!! The place was not at all pleasant.
And the worst part I was walking barefoot on that rocky, muddy
floor!

My grandma, on the other hand seemed overwhelmed to be there. I
was fascinated by my grandma's dedication and devotion- she was
having a terrible backache and knee pain yet she prostrated in
both the temples leaving me to watch her in awe.

On our way to the temple, the locals of the village had claimed
that the scripts of original biographies by Vrindaban Das
really existed. I considered it as a bluff. I thought the
scripts that are about 600 years old cannot be there practically.
The national museum would have taken it by now for its display
collection or must have been sold in some auctions. Besides
maintaining such an antique piece is not just a cup tea for an
ordinary man.

There was an old, hunchback, lady there who seemed to take care
of the temple. She was nearly deaf and weak. My grandma and
grandfather were curious about knowing more about the scripts
while I searched for an excuse to run away. We had a tough time
making the old lady understand our intentions and directing us.
After trying for some time, the lady could hear some of our
words. She looked perplexed when she realised none of her answers
could satisfy us. At last, she raised her hand and pointed us to
a direction and said- "scripts!"

Soon we were standing in front of a big old house with a
dilapidated appearance. The walls made of dried cow dung cakes
and the smoke of charcoal burning was almost choking me. I was
really disgusted now..I began to wonder..What am I doing in this
horrible place investigating on useless things!!! My day-gone
down the drain! Phew !...

We entered a house with open doors...by this time, my eyes had
started watering.

A girl in her mid teens came out. She had a dark complexion and
seemed to be a college going girl. She looked at us suspiciously.
My grandma disclosed her identity to the girl. Frankly speaking,
whenever grandma disclosed her identity it worked like some
magical words and the listener got wood easily. Same happened
here, the girl beamed and blushed. She bestowed all her
hospitality on us. Her mother was cooking food in the in a
charcoal fuelled stove. She was watching us all the while and was
busy in the house old chores. The girl touched my grandma and
grandfather's feet and offered us a seat on a mattress laid on a
platform of the house. She talked to us as if we had known her
for years. She said amiably"mother, your father had cured my
father of an ailment which was nearly impossible to recover from.
Grandfather was such an excellent doctor that under his
medication and care, my father recovered pretty quickly. As my
father was a local priest of the nearby temple, money was scarce;
Grandpa never asked us for money he just wished our welfare.
Since then, we have remained in a debt to your grandpa not in
terms of money but his kindness. He was such a wonderful person
as a kid I used to wonder."She meant what she said, he eyes
showed that...

Out of curiosity, my Grandma asked," do you know anything about
the scripts. Do they really exist?" The girl replied "Of course
it does!!! And it is right here in this house. You want to see
it? Sure, I'll show them to you."

That was something of a shocker. I had never imagined in my
wildest dreams that such an ancient, antique and priceless thing
could belong to this shabby looking place. "How??!!!!" I
wondered... Numerous questions stormed into my mind. I was in a
total confused state.

Her brother maybe a bit younger than her came out of a room
dressed in white dhoti and the Hindu sacred thread. He went into
a heavily locked room and came out...

We were gazing at the masterpiece in awe...There it was before
us, two beautiful ancient scripts completely sealed in a wooden
glass container. I could see the rectangular strips of yellowish
brown paper with uneven sides. On them, Sanskrit verses were
written in a beautiful handwriting. They weren't fake at all, one
could easily make out from its appearance, they were indeed the
real, original texts of Chaitanya Bhagavata and Chaitanya
Charatamrita...placed neatly in two columns. The girl pointed-
that was written by Vrindavan Das and the small notes written
below were added by Chaitanya Mahaprabhu himself. I could see the
small notes written in an equally elegant handwriting at the
bottom of the ancient pages.

The girl added, "Once the ISCON devotees, some foreigners came
and visited us. They offered us three lakh rupees for these
scripts and were willing to pay any amount for it. But we could
never-ever sell these unique things as long as we stay alive.
These scripts have been passed on to us from our ancestor
Vrindavan Das. We couldn't have been so selfish and giving this
treasure in lieu of money was out of question. We simply
declined their offer."

A kind of pride and defiance shone in the girl's eyes. She never
showed any sign of regretting her decision instead she looked as
if she had done just the right thing. I was thinking of taking a
photograph and tried to open my handbag. Suddenly, she got alert
and said politely ,"no pictures please".

It took some time for me to recover from the two consecutive
shocks. The girl certainly knew the value of the manuscripts,
and she knew certainly how to preserve such invaluable artefact.
She certainly was far from rich, and yet she preferred to
preserve those scripts, rather than do what any other man of the
modern world would do, sell it in an auction. That would have
made her perhaps the wealthiest of all families of the village
but she had been protecting those scripts from getting robbed,
from getting spoiled or being found either. In that small village
which hardly any knew, in that small mud hut smelling of charcoal
and cow dung, in the eyes of that very ordinary sari clad girl,
I saw something that I had never seen in the multitudes of the
city. I saw the light of patriotism and a pride in our past
heritage that makes our country so great, so different from
others.

I relaxed and comfortably settled myself on the mattress. I
closed my eyes and thanked God for everything I had and
everything He had given me...